crystallus
by Andixa
Summary: Or, four conversations on a theme.


"Joe."

"Yeah, buddy?"

He set the stone on the bar, dull white crystal atop black cotton. The last piece followed, placed with a precise clack.

"It's yours."

"Jesus. Is that-"

"Yeah, it is."

"Shit, man, the Watchers have been looking all over for it. You sure you want to give it up?"

"It was made to be given away, Joe. It was never meant for immortals - never meant to be hoarded."

"Yeah, well. I'm gonna have a heck of a time explaining to the Watchers how that thing just wandered in my door."

Methos looked away, then up, then down to the floor. A not-quite-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm not giving it to the Watchers; I'm giving it to you. It's yours. Take it. Put the last piece in. Live forever. Simple as that."

"Very funny."

"I'm not being funny, Joe."

"You know I can't do that."

"You can. And you will."

The stone sat there between them. It didn't look like much, really; something nicked from a geology exhibit, or maybe a tacky paperweight.

"What about… you know. Alexa."

"Alexa's dead, Joe."

"Fine, then. What happens when you fall in love again, and the stone's gone?"

The old man leans over the bar, his eyes dark.

"I'm not letting you die, Joe. Not so I can wait around for someone better to come around. Take the damned stone."

* * *

The sack hit his desk with a muffled jangle. It was thick blue velvet, gathered at the opening by a braided silk cord - the kind of thing you'd expect some posh lady to have, maybe a hundred years ago. Ridiculous when paired with Methos' jeans and wool jumper.

Joe doesn't ask what's inside. He doesn't need to.

"No."

Grey eyes look at him - just look, like it's a foregone conclusion.

"Get the fuck out of here."

Standing there like that, looking, nothing else… The old man has never seemed like one of _them_ before, not like now: wise, bright and alien, cut from a different cloth. He finds himself wondering if humans really can feel immortal Presence, or if this more-real-than-realness is just _Methos_.

"Take it, Joe. Don't make me ask twice."

* * *

"Good morning."

Dull gray walls, dull gray ceiling. Soft mattress, fine clean sheets. The smell of dirt and flowers. And a familiar pale figure smiling down at him.

"Where am I?"

"Nowhere special, just a little place I have tucked away. Africa, if you're curious. Do you want specifics?"

"What happened?"

"Ah, yes. Well. I have good news, and bad news… and sort of _strange_ news."

"Alright, I'll bite. Start at the beginning."

"Well, Joe, the good news is - you're alive," the old man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed. "The bad news is _how_ exactly you're alive; I may have done something a little… unconventional."

Alive? The last thing he remembered was running, helping MacLeod, and then- then, pain. A gut shot, bleeding out.

"I should be dead."

"Yep."

"But how... oh no. Oh, hell no."

"Oh hell yes, I'm afraid."

"The Methuselah stone. You just- just _used_ it on me, without asking? How could you? Where did you even get it? Jesus Christ, Methos. This is wrong. I don't want this."

"That's exactly why I didn't ask you. Call me selfish, but I'd rather ask forgiveness than permission."

"Shit. Just… shit."

"Yep."

"Why me? You took it for Alexa."

"Yes, I did. But it's too late for her, Joe. You know that."

"Too late for her, maybe, but- But why not… you know, why not the next... Alexa?"

The old man was quiet for a moment.

"Joe, there is no _next_ Alexa. There was only ever one Alexa. There will only ever _be_ one Alexa. Every one of you is unique. Every one. I couldn't let you die just because I might love some woman decades from now - someone who doesn't even exist yet. You're here now, Joe. And I'd like to keep it that way."

"Methos, I- I don't know what to say."

"Say 'thanks, Methos.' And here, drink your juice."

"Yeah, well. I guess I can't complain too much. I'm alive, after all. Thanks, Methos. I mean it," Joe shifted up to take the glass- "oh, shit. Shit shit shit, what the _fuck_?"

He threw off the white sheets, scrambling backwards, away from… away from his own legs.

Legs.

"That… would be the _strange_ news, Joe. Seems the crystal has a few side effects. Surprise?"

* * *

There was no conversation. Joe thought something like this, something big and terrible and life-changing as _the god damned Methuselah stone_ , warranted at least a little bit of conversation first.

But no.

It happened on a Thursday at around three in the afternoon, completely out of the blue. The weather wasn't especially nice, just your typical overcast March weekday. Joe wasn't feeling particularly good or bad, just the usual midday hum-drum. There were an average number of customers for a Thursday at three in the afternoon, mostly regulars, with a small pocket of tourists towards the back of the bar. Joe was working on next week's shift schedule, wondering idly if he should start putting out little bowls of peanuts. And then Methos walked right up and punched him in the chest.

At least, that's what it felt like. He fell backwards off his tall stool, landing square on his back and taking several rows of clean glasses and a bin of lemons along for the ride.

On the other side of the counter, Methos was doing an excellent job of looking absolutely terrifying, despite the several feet of mahogany between them, the ugly sweater, the odd haircut, and heretofore unseen horn-rim glasses. He really shouldn't have had the leverage to punch someone that hard, not from the other side of the bar, definitely not without leaping across the counter or getting any sort of wind-up first. He had a small canvas bag in one hand, and seemed to be waiting for something. He'd also been missing for about ten years now, without a single postcard or even a Watcher sighting, and Joe definitely did not remember seeing the old man wander in through any of the bar's very few doors at any point that day.

None of this really occurred to him at that moment, of course, since he was on the floor, and his thoughts were occupied with things like _pain_ , and _ouch_ , and _what the hell?!_ , and _OUCH_.

Eventually Joe righted himself and peered over the counter. Something was odd - not wrong, necessarily, just odd. Something that had nothing to do with Methos, except that he'd just punched Joe in the chest, which may or may not have contributed to the oddness. If he hadn't been so distracted - if he hadn't just been punched in the chest - he might have noticed that he suddenly felt much better than he had in quite a long time, and that he was very lucky not to have cut himself in all the broken glass. He didn't even feel winded. But he didn't notice, because Methos was here, and he'd just punched Joe in the chest.

"You're here," he said, "and you just punched me in the chest."

"Yes, and no," replied the old man, with a sort of guarded look on his face.

"O...kay. Wanna tell me what's going on?"

"I- figured it out. I've been gone a while, to figure it out, and I… did."

"It?"

Two small canvas bags, placed carefully on the counter in front of him. There was something heavy inside. Pennies, or maybe rocks. He kept hold of a third, empty one.

"I… found Rebecca's notes, you see."


End file.
